


Jack Be Nimble

by doctor__idiot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Play, Dark, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9895424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester aren’t heroes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a plot bunny that wouldn't let me go. I've never written anything like this and I'm not yet sure if I like it.
> 
> Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. Beta by [Mybaderbrainday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mybaderbrainday/pseuds/Mybaderbrainday).

Sam and Dean Winchester aren’t heroes. 

They are not what all the stories make them out to be. The Righteous Man and the Boy with the Demon Blood. 

Well, that last part’s true, at least.

There was a time where perhaps the stories had some truth to them. A time where all the myths weren’t just myths. A time where saving people was part of their job description.

They still save people, in their own way. Or try to.

It’s what Dean tells Sam every time, bloodied knife hanging by his side, while he holds a carved-out heart.

Most days, that’s not a metaphor.

Unlike Dean, Sam prefers guns to knives because they’re deadlier and more precise. If asked, that’s what Dean would use to describe his little brother.

Sam doesn’t prefer guns because he’s a coward who kills at a distance. He likes to press the muzzle against the underside of some poor bastard’s jaw, maybe the occasional temple, but never the back of the neck. 

Sam doesn’t hide. You’ll see him coming.

He likes the stench of terror, the heavy breathing, and he savors the pleading. 

Oh, how they always plead so beautifully.

Usually it’s _please don’t_ or _I’ve got kids_ or _God help me_. But God never comes. He ain’t around, not where the Winchesters are.

Sometimes they hear _please do it_ and it’s such a lovely surprise. Dean always lets Sam save those ones. Free them.

It truly is a thing of beauty, the way those slender fingers close around the ivory-paneled grip of Dean’s favorite gun — the one that’s now Sam’s —, the way the muscles in his back shifts when he lifts it, the wry curl of his mouth that means he’s biding his time.

Dean loves watching Sam work. It always brings him right to that sweet edge and makes it difficult to be patient, to wait for Sam to finish, before he can sink to his knees in the puddle of crimson in front of his brother.

Sam takes the blade from him then, twirling it, testing the balance — and if Dean thinks it’s hot to watch Sam handle guns, it’s nothing compared to watching him with knives —, before he drags the sharp, pointed tip across the pale inside of Dean’s forearm. 

The lines all scar eventually — Sam sometimes traces them with his thumb at night — but not before Sam presses his mouth to the open wound while Dean’s lips are wrapped around his cock, working him like a two-dollar whore until his jaw aches.

Later, Dean picks the discarded knife back up and begins cutting his masterpiece. He’s nothing if not a perfectionist.

Today, it’s the petite waitress from the diner they had dinner at the night before and Dean opens up her ribcage expertly. She’d look gorgeous with wings, he thinks, and he tries but he needs more practice at those.

He makes a face looking down at her and Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get it right next time.”

Dean nods, sighs, and sheathes the knife against his hip.

After, he leaves bloody handprints on the Impala’s hood where Sam fucks him bent over it before he lets his little brother suck it off his fingers. Only when they’re filthy from head to toe, blood and cum smeared between their mouths, do they consider the ritual complete.

The newspapers aren’t on to them yet but it’s only a matter of time. They’re not exactly subtle. Cleaning up would mean effort and Dean’s all about fun. Sam never protests and Dean knows he secretly likes it messy, too.

It’s a little bit like a game. How much of a mess can they make before the police catch on? 

Dean’s found they’re a rather stupid bunch.

He always wonders whether the people they kill go to heaven or hell. There’s no way of telling these days. Some of them pray, but any old idiot can talk to God. Dean sometimes does, but it’s usually to boast because he knows the guy ain’t listening.

Their story has never been a happy one. It was never going to have a fairy tale ending and Dean figures they’re only playing their parts. All their lives, they’ve hung on by a bare thread. To their sanity. To their kindness. 

What good is kindness in a God-less world?

Dean knows their story is going to end tragically, sooner or later, and he is okay with that.


End file.
